


the shadow of a damaged heart

by unwindmyself



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BDSM therapy, Bathing/Washing, Blindfolds, Bondage, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom/sub, F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Identity Issues, Mentors, Non-Sexual Kink, Romantic Friendship, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safeword Use, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Survivor Guilt, Trauma Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:31:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwindmyself/pseuds/unwindmyself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While laying low and taking time for herself, Jemma would prefer some company as she processes everything that's happened, and Natasha is happy to oblige her with that and with providing unconventional coping mechanisms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the shadow of a damaged heart

**Author's Note:**

> On the issue of continuity with canon and my other works: this takes place sometime around the season two premiere and operates on the assumption that wherever Jemma is, Natasha is looking in on her and helping her out (because that at least makes me feel better about her being out there alone). It also assumes that the story where she's at academy and they date did in fact happen in the past, though you don't need to be familiar with that (and there's much more of it to come, including eventual adventures in more sexual kink).
> 
> Finally, it also does comply with my Jemma/Skye fic series. Hence that Romantic Friendship tag, because somewhere offscreen and with Jemma's permission (though not her direct involvement because that would be too hard for her) Natasha and Skye had a conversation that will be alluded to and worked out the details of this arrangement.
> 
> And anyway, I'm sure this is all going to be horribly non-canon-compliant in a matter of days but until then it makes me feel better to think about.

“Hey, kitten.”

Jemma didn’t hear the door open-and-close and didn’t hear Natasha enter, but then she never hears Natasha enter. Natasha’s like that. She could be wearing tap shoes and she’d still manage to slink in silently.

“Hello,” Jemma says, looking up with one of her wan little smiles that might be a warning sign. “How was your day?” She’s attempting an American accent, because she’s been working on things like that lately. Jemma Simmons, who technically doesn’t exist, was born in Devon, but Ellie Lawrence, who has glasses and short black hair, hails from Montana, for example.

“You _r_ ,” Natasha corrects gently.

“ _Your_ ,” Jemma repeats.

“My day was all right,” Natasha says carefully, going to perch on the arm of the chair that’s catty-corner to the sofa that Jemma’s sprawled on. “Nothing special. I stopped by the store on my way over.” She raises an eyebrow. “Have you eaten today?”

Jemma doesn’t answer directly, instead shrugging and saying, “I was working, and once I got home I was reading that book you left for me, the music history one.”

“Were you?”

“I sort of got stuck in the baroque period, but in a good way,” she continues, getting more excited and a little more like normal as she goes. “It’s just such a lot I’ve never really had reason to study before. I mean, the general music classes you take in school never get into the interesting things about the composers’ lives or anything. If you were a music major, I’m sure you’d… but I think the last time I took a proper music class was when I was twelve, maybe.”

“You’re avoiding,” Natasha says after a moment. “You know that’s not helpful.”

“I’m not hungry,” Jemma mumbles.

Natasha sighs. “You still need to eat,” she says. “I’m supposed to be looking out for you.”

“I’m not entirely inept,” Jemma defends, her voice rising. “I… I’ve fixed…”

“Stop,” Natasha says softly. “Go to your room, kit. Get comfortable. I’ll be there in…” She takes a box of mediocre pizza out of one of the shopping bags on the counter. “Let’s say eighteen minutes. You can use that time to pick things out for tonight, all right?”

They both know what kind of things. They’ve established a routine. Natasha doesn’t come by every night, and they don’t do this every night, but she can tell what Jemma needs. (Jemma has a hard time masking facial cues, and Natasha is very good at reading facial cues.)

 

* * *

 

Upon entering Natasha almost remarks on the pile of scarves that Jemma’s made at the end of the bed. They’re Hermès, of course; she’s managed to acquire an impressive number of designer anythings over time and there’s no reason she shouldn’t let them get use when otherwise they’d just be sitting in a box in some storage locker. She almost says something quippy about how apparently Jemma feels like playing damsel tonight, but then she realizes that might actually be part of it.

Despite the fact that Jemma has saved herself and others more than once, Natasha knows that she doesn’t see herself as a hero. She still sees herself as the one who _needs_ saving, not the one who does it. Natasha wants to teach her that it’s possible to be both, because it is, and it’s not that Jemma needs saving for the reasons she thinks she does (which are something along the lines of her relative weakness, those damsellike qualities) but because sometimes that just happens, everyone needs a little help.

It’s a lesson that took Natasha a very long time to learn herself, and one she’s still learning in truth. Passing it on is the least she can do.

Instead what she says is, “Pizza’s ready.”

Jemma, who by this point has changed out of her Going Places And Doing Things clothes (sweater, shirt, tie, pants) and into a simple tank top and pajama shorts, tilts her head as she regards Natasha. “You’re not going to make me eat it alone, are you?”

“Of course not,” Natasha says, settling first the pizza box and then herself on the bed in front of Jemma. “Will you let me check up on you while we have dinner?”

“I’m fine,” Jemma says automatically, waiting to see Natasha take a slice of pizza before she does herself.

“You’re still not good at lying, kitten,” Natasha says, equal parts warning and affirmation. “I know you’re doing pretty well, but you shouldn’t have to settle for pretty well.”

“I think settling is all anyone can hope for,” Jemma mumbles, averting her eyes.

And Natasha leans right forward and lifts her chin, stares straight at her. “No,” she says firmly. “It’s not. It’s not going to happen in an instant, but anyone can be put back together. I know.”

Unexpectedly, Jemma lets out a choked sob, then promptly covers her mouth.

And dimly Natasha realizes she could have phrased that better, but instead she continues, “I’m here to look out for you, and that’s what I want you to try to focus on. Looking out for yourself.”

“I just feel like… like I could have done better,” Jemma whispers. “I should have been able to say more to him, or convince him that… I should have…”

“Jemma,” Natasha says warningly.

“I shouldn’t have left him,” Jemma continues. “Left them.”

They both know what _them_ really means, too.

“There is nothing you did wrong,” Natasha says. She watches Jemma for a moment, then brushes a tear from her cheek. “Let’s finish up. I want to try something tonight.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m not sure about this,” Jemma mumbles, shifting from one foot to the other.

“I won’t be offended if you need to call it off, kitten,” Natasha soothes, petting down Jemma’s arms and leaning so close that Jemma can feel breath against her skin. “Let’s just try it and see.”

Jemma sucks in a breath, but she nods. “Please?”

It’s the consent that Natasha was waiting for, and it means that she lets go of Jemma for a moment to reach for one of the scarves, then lets it trail over Jemma’s now-bare skin. She knows Jemma is going to shiver at it, and Jemma does; she knows what’s going on in Jemma’s head, the layer of worry that she’s going to cross the boundaries of their precarious arrangement by accident over the jumble of worries that said precarious arrangement addresses.

“You wanna use colors tonight?” Natasha asks gently, bringing the scarf up over Jemma’s eyes but not yet tying it.

“Yes, please,” Jemma whispers.

“All right,” Natasha says, and she knots the ends securely behind Jemma’s head. “I’m going to keep checking in on you.”

“Green,” Jemma says immediately, though it’s punctuated by another sharp intake of breath.

“Good,” Natasha coos. “Give me your hand.” Timidly, Jemma does, letting out that breath when she feels Natasha’s fingers against her own, and slowly she’s led forward, one step two step three steps, before Natasha adds, “Climb in. It’s about a foot and a half you need to clear.”

Jemma gives a hum of concentration, lifts one foot and moves forward, doesn’t start to really put it down until she feels the warm water against her toes.

“Tasha…”

“It’s okay, kit,” Natasha murmurs. “Just sit down. I’m right here.”

It takes a fair amount of Jemma’s control to not reach up to tug the blindfold off before she sinks into the water, but she manages, the hand that’s not still in Natasha’s lightly brushing the wall of the shower, and then she’s sitting back submerged, the water coming up nearly to her manubrium, and for a second she forgets to breathe.

“It’s okay,” Natasha repeats. “You’re going to be okay.”

“I feel claustrophobic,” Jemma mumbles, but she doesn’t move.

“You have all the room you want,” Natasha says gently. “Reach your arm up.”

Jemma does, feeling droplets roll down from her fingertips to her elbow.

“And your leg.”

Jemma points her toes, lets her right leg lift out of the water.

“See,” Natasha says. “There’s plenty of space for you. You’re fine.” She places a hand on Jemma’s shoulder, rubs over the skin. “Any time you need to, you can get out.”

“All right,” Jemma whispers.

“I just want you to lie back for me,” Natasha continues. “I’m going to wash you, and you can be as still or quiet or responsive or fidgety as you want. Okay? This is your time.”

Jemma gives a little whimper, this nonsense sound that might mean that she’s amenable to the idea or that might mean she doesn’t feel like she deserves the care and attention. Or not _deserves_ but – that she doesn’t think it’s necessary. Something like that. The world is in chaos, people are – are dying and getting hurt and she’s all in one piece and she’s alive and she doesn’t need special attention, honestly, she’s just trying to stay out of the way and – and –

“Your time,” Natasha repeats. “I can tell what you’re doing, you know.”

“What’s that?” Jemma asks.

“Spiraling.”

She dips one of her own hands in the water, then brings it up so she can let some drip down Jemma’s spine and keep Jemma steady when she shudders. It’s nothing that couldn’t have been expected.

“I promised I would look out for you,” Natasha continues, reaching for a bottle of bodywash and starting to work over Jemma’s skin. “That I would –”

“Babysit,” Jemma interjects, sounding just slightly bitter. “And I told you, I don’t need minding, I’m fine, I can –”

“I know why you’re misinterpreting it,” Natasha says. “I understand. I know how it can feel to have to go back to normal after your world crashes down around you.” She scrubs one arm and then the other, slow and methodical, and Jemma vaguely registers that the soap smells of peaches. “You don’t know whether it’s better if people act like nothing is the matter or they treat you like you feel like you deserve, with a little more wariness maybe.”

Jemma doesn’t say anything, but she leans into Natasha’s hands, lets her head fall forward so her chin is resting on her clavicle.

“And there are things that nobody is saying that you don’t want to hear but you feel like you have to,” Natasha continues. “And things that they say when they think you aren’t listening that you don’t want to hear period. Things they say when you aren’t listening that you really _would_ like to hear.”

“And it doesn’t really matter what they do or don’t say,” Jemma whispers, “because I know what the matter is and even if they’re not really thinking it I feel like they are, but maybe they’re not thinking it because they’ve so many other things to do and I’m just tagging along.”

“No,” Natasha says very firmly, pressing Jemma forward so she can scrub her back. “You know, it’s hard for you to believe it, but nobody blames you for anything.”

“If it had been May or Trip or, or Skye, none of this would have happened,” Jemma says softly. It’s something she’s fretted about all this while, and it’s hard to keep it back now. “They would have…”

“You can’t think that way,” Natasha insists, her voice going soft. “What happened wasn’t your fault. What’s happening _isn’t_ your fault.”

“I should, I could be…”

Natasha puts a finger to Jemma’s lips. Jemma doesn’t expect it, given that she can’t see it coming, and as such she startles, but after a moment she relaxes again. She lets Natasha tip her chin up for better access to her throat and collarbone.

“You’ve got every right to do exactly what you’re doing,” Natasha continues. “You’re adjusting. And trust me. I know what blame sounds like, and they don’t blame you. Melinda wouldn’t have asked me to keep an eye on you if you didn’t matter to her, and Skye –”

Jemma’s shoulders shake, a tear slips out from under her blindfold.

“Skye wouldn’t have cleared this with me if she didn’t want you to feel better,” Natasha continues. She doesn’t repeat, has never repeated, all of what Skye said when the two of them spoke (“I don’t care as long as you don’t fuck her, and hell, maybe she’ll let you help, she won’t let me”) because she knows it would make this worse. But the intent is important. “They care about you.”

“I don’t deserve that,” Jemma exclaims. “I –”

“You had to do this,” Natasha says. “For yourself first and foremost. They’ll be there when you’re ready.”

“When will that be?” Jemma asks.

“I don’t know, kitten,” Natasha replies. “It’s different for everyone. Up on your knees so I can get your chest.”

 

* * *

 

Natasha scrubs Jemma down thoroughly and then Jemma just soaks for a while, lets Natasha’s voice surround her. it stops making sense after a while but it’s soft and warm and soothing and a lovely anchor in the darkness. She feels calm.

And then Natasha says, “I’m going to take your blindfold off for a minute so I can wash your hair. I want you to keep your eyes closed, though.”

“All right, Tasha,” Jemma whispers, dropping her chin immediately.

Natasha nods, pulls the blindfold off, rakes fingers over Jemma’s scalp. “Good girl,” she croons.

“Thank you,” Jemma breathes.

“You’re very sweet, you always have been,” Natasha continues, and Jemma feels a disturbance in the water near her knees. “You see the world with a remarkable amount of wonder.”

“Thank you,” Jemma repeats.

“Don’t let the world take that from you,” Natasha continues very solemnly. “It’s too rare.”

Without warning, water comes pouring over Jemma’s head. Natasha expects that Jemma’s going to shout and sputter, which she does, and her own voice accordingly stays even.

“Green?” she asks. “Yellow?”

“Y-yellow,” Jemma stammers, and Natasha notices that she’s starting to shake.

“All right, kit, I’ll be quick about it,” Natasha promises, starting to massage shampoo into Jemma’s hair. “Just a minute, just a little shampoo and a little more water and I’ll be all done, okay?”

“Green,” Jemma says, though she still sounds anxious.

“You’re being so good,” Natasha enthuses. “I promise I’ve got you, all right?”

“Green,” Jemma repeats, almost in a daze.

“Good,” Natasha says. She pulls back. “Can you lean back in the water for me? So just your hair is under.”

“Yes,” Jemma says, arranging herself so she’s leaning back. Her hand grips the edge of the tub, but she leans back so her hair is in the water.

Natasha shampoos the younger girl’s hair, watching her face and body carefully for reactions, and she’s all complacent and calm and then her hand slips just the tiniest bit and she loses her position and for a split second her face submerges too and then she’s sitting straight up, her eyes flying open.

“Red,” she shouts, looking terrified.

Immediately Natasha reaches for her, wraps arms around her and smooths a hand down her back. “It’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s okay, kitten, I’ve got you.”

“I’m so pathetic,” Jemma whimpers.

“No,” Natasha insists. She reaches for a towel and wrings the water from Jemma’s hair efficiently. “No, you’re great. You’re so good for me.”

“I don’t feel good,” Jemma mumbles. “I feel ridiculous.”

“You’re not,” Natasha says. “We’ll just be more careful and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Can I have the blindfold back?” Jemma asks faintly. “It felt safe.”

“Soon,” Natasha assures. This is progress, she knows, and that’s important. “We’re going to get you out of the tub and dried off first. Sound good?”

“Yes,” Jemma says. “Good. Green.”

She’s starting to loop a little, which could either be good or bad, so Natasha looks right into her eyes. “You sure?” she asks.

“Yes,” Jemma repeats, managing an admittedly weak but genuine smile. “Promise.”

 

* * *

 

Natasha is very careful drying Jemma off, patting more than rubbing and getting every last inch of her, especially her hair, before taking her by the hand and leading her back to the bedroom. She pulls the bedcovers down before she dresses Jemma back in those pajamas, she sits Jemma down on a pillow on the floor and braids her damp hair, pins it to her head like a Victorian novel.

“Come back up,” Natasha instructs.

Carefully, Jemma clambers onto the bed, sits cross-legged in front of Natasha and regards her curiously.

“You want the blindfold back?” Natasha asks, though she knows.

“I do,” Jemma says. “If you want to give it back.”

“I can,” Natasha agrees, then clambers up behind Jemma to fix it back in place.

“Thank you, Tasha,” Jemma says softly.

“Put your knees up,” Natasha continues, and once Jemma has done so, she wraps one of the scarves around her knees, pressing them together. Then she does the same to Jemma’s ankles, offering no explanation. “Now hug your thighs. Hands under your knees.”

Jemma nods. “How tight should I hold?”

“I’ll fix it, don’t worry,” Natasha soothes, and very gently she rolls Jemma onto her side, angles herself to be able to tie Jemma’s wrists with another scarf.

“Oh,” Jemma sighs out. “S’nice.”

“Good,” Natasha says. “I want it to be. Can I move you up the bed?”

“Yes,” Jemma breathes, her voice going dreamy.

And Natasha does exactly that, inching Jemma up the bed so her head rests on the pillow before she climbs up behind her, pulls up the covers, and promptly wraps arms around Jemma’s chest.

“Hi,” Jemma squeaks.

“You comfortable?”

“Deep forest green,” Jemma promises, a smile playing over her lips as she tips her head back.

“Good,” Natasha says. She takes a breath of Jemma’s sweet artificially-peach-smelling skin, and though she’d never admit to it if anyone outside of this asked, she nuzzles into her shoulder. “Your American accent was pretty good.”

“Thank you,” Jemma murmurs. “I’ve been working at it.”

“If you’re interested, we can play with some others soon,” she offers. “Would you like that?”

“I would,” Jemma agrees. They’ve never explicitly discussed why it’s so useful to have those under her belt, but they both know why, and really, any little bit counts.

A moment passes before Natasha muses, “You know, I never thought that of all people I’d wind up being _your_ S.O.”

“You’re not,” Jemma says immediately. “I had… and I mean, you’re, you do…”

“I’m teaching you how to survive in the world,” Natasha says with a little shrug that means she winds up wrapped closer around Jemma. “It’s close enough.”

Jemma swallows. She understands, even with her brain half-fuzzy like it is, the significance of this. She certainly trusts Natasha enough to let her be that, but she’s somehow flattered and even surprised that Natasha trusts _her_ enough to take that on, even if unofficially and indirectly.

“Well,” she says, nearly a whisper, “thank you. For everything.”

Natasha knows that she means it, means every single please and thank you that she offers; it’s just one of the many things that in her mind make Jemma Simmons someone especially worth protecting. Able to protect herself, but still taken care of. She’s better than Natasha could ever hope to be, really.

“You’re welcome, Jemma.”

And maybe that’s one of the reasons this works. Neither of them have a solid place in the world anymore. Both of them need one more than they’d admit out loud. And more than that, neither one of them sees themselves as a hero. Both of them would insist that the other is just that.


End file.
